


The Little Things

by ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade <i>does </i>have a life outside of Sherlock Holmes, despite what the detective might like to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone fic, but it does operate in the ["Winter's Child"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/12541) 'verse. It is not necessary to have read all (or any) of that 'verse in order to understand this. For those who are interested, however, this takes place between ["See His Star, Shining Bright"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/311799) and ["What Goes Unsaid."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/338282/chapters/547460)
> 
> Title taken from Stephen Sondheim's "The Little Things You Do Together."
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Beta: Canon_Is_Relative
> 
>  This was originally written as a Valentine’s Day ficlet for [](http://linguini17.livejournal.com/profile)[**linguini17**](http://linguini17.livejournal.com/) , who wanted a little backstory for this exchange in “What Goes Unsaid”:
> 
>   _“Uncle Greg married a girl.”_
> 
>   _Sherlock gave a brisk nod. “And right now he’s dating a man - remember?”  
> _

Lestrade scrubbed his hands with heat-swollen and clumsy fingers, scraping out the dirt from under his fingernails and washing away the specks of red on the insides of his wrists. He continued to rub at his raw skin even after the worst of the mess had been swept down the drain, his flesh tingling with the phantom sensation of caked blood. The afternoon had been a nightmare, a routine crime scene gone wrong when a third - and barely-alive - victim had been discovered in a closet during the course of their investigation. She had died with Lestrade’s hands on her torso, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood from a wound so deep, he felt as though his hands had been buried inside her stomach.

Half an hour locked in the bathrooms at the Yard had taken care of the worst of the blood; enough so that he could finish off his day, at any rate. But he had still walked around with the feel of it on his hands, and evening couldn’t come soon enough.

His mobile buzzed abruptly - three times before stopping, indicating a text. Lestrade shut off the tap and dried his hands; only two people would be contacting him at this hour of the night. He fished the device out of his pocket and squinted at it. The harsh light set against the backdrop of the otherwise-darkened bathroom caused his eyes to burn, but the name that appeared on the screen set him instantly at ease.

_Just off work. On my way soon._

_ Might be asleep. Just let yourself in. _

Liam’s reply was near-instantaneous; Lestrade never knew how he managed to manipulate his mobile so quickly.

_ Planning on it. Don’t wait up. _

Lestrade snorted and typed, _Don’t think I could if I tried. There’s food in the fridge if you haven’t eaten yet._

_ You’re a saint. _

\----

Liam Dimmock arrived at Lestrade’s flat as the clock on his mobile ticked over from the old day to the new. He had been delayed at the Yard for most of the evening due to two pending cases, and by the time he had been able to put both messes to bed it was nearing midnight. He made straight for Lestrade’s flat, because what with the two of them working fourteen, fifteen, sixteen-hour shifts, he hadn’t seen his lover for more than two minutes at a time this past week. It seemed that the only time they had together as of late was in the moments after the morning alarm went off, when they would share a groggy kiss and mumbled hellos before the day commanded their attentions.

Dimmock discarded his shoes next to Lestrade’s and draped his coat over the back of a chair before moving into the kitchen. He found that he was far too weary now to even contemplate eating. Instead, he ran the tap and poured a glass of water, taking a moment to decompress in the quiet of the small room.

But then there came the sound of a faint click, which Dimmock passed off as an invention of his exhausted mind until he heard it again - faint but methodical, the slightly cringe-inducing sound of metal sliding against metal. Someone was unmistakably picking Lestrade’s locks and not bothering to be inconspicuous about it, either. Dimmock sighed, because though he had yet to be in the flat when this occurred, he had known Sherlock Holmes too long to suspect that it could be anyone else.

“Ah, good, Lestrade, you’re -” Sherlock started when Dimmock opened the door, rising to his feet in one fluid movement, but he stopped abruptly when he realized he wasn’t addressing Lestrade. His eyebrows snapped together in a frown and he demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Says the man trying to break into a flat that isn’t his,” Dimmock commented dryly. “What do you want?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Sherlock said briskly, pocketing his tools and moving to push past Dimmock. “I’m here to see Lestrade.”

“Well, that’s too damn bad,” Dimmock retorted, snagging Sherlock by the collar shoving him back over the threshold with a burst of strength he hadn’t realized he possessed. Blood pounded in his ears, and he could feel the colour drain from his face as fury lapped at his insides. “He’s asleep.”

Sherlock smirked. “Do you really think that’s a difficult obstacle for me to overcome?”

“Dammit, Holmes,” Dimmock hissed, holding the edge of the door with one hand and the door frame with the other so that his body prevented Sherlock from entering the flat again, “he’s had a bloody terrible day and this is the first time he’s slept in at least forty-eight hours. You can talk to him in the morning. Good _night_.”

A hand shot out and braced itself against the door. Sherlock leaned in and growled, “And who are _you_ to be making such decisions for him?”

“Look around you,” Dimmock shot back, “and make a _deduction_.”

Sherlock blinked and then took a full step back, his eyes dropping to Dimmock’s feet and then dragging up to his face.

“You’re sleeping with him.”

“Marvelous work,” Dimmock said wearily. “What gave me away? My shoes? The coffee stain on my sleeve? Or maybe the fact that I’m in his flat at twelve-bloody-thirty _in the morning_.”

Sherlock looked dumbfounded. “I don’t understand -”

“Yes, you bloody well do,” Dimmock snapped. “You just don’t want to think about it. Despite what you may like to believe, Greg’s got a life that doesn’t revolve around _you_. Now get out of this building or I’ll have you locked up for trespassing. He’ll call you in the morning.”

“Look -”

“Is it about Cal?” Dimmock interrupted, because if he was going to wake Lestrade for any one person, it would be for his five-year-old godson.

“No, but -”

_ “In the morning._” And before Sherlock could react, Dimmock shoved the full weight of his shoulder into the door and forced it shut, doing up the locks and putting the chain in place. 

Dimmock pressed his forehead against the door and kept one hand resting on the handle, waiting for the sound of the lock pick again. He had never been particularly fond of Sherlock, disliking how he used Lestrade and the Yard to ward off his boredom, and he had never made a secret of this disdain. But Dimmock would have to be both ignorant and a fool not to see that Sherlock actually meant a great deal to Lestrade, and that little Calvin Watson was - rightly so - Lestrade’s whole world. And so if loving one man meant putting up with the other, then Dimmock considered that a very small price to pay.

After about ten minutes of silence he sighed, shut off the kitchen light, and maneuvered in the dark to Lestrade’s bedroom. He shut the door softly behind him and stripped down to his pants, chucking his clothes in the general direction of a corner before slipping into bed as gently as possible.

Lestrade was a light sleeper, however, and prone to waking up at the slightest deviation from the dead silence of night. Even the dip in the bed alerted him, dragging him back to consciousness from his much-needed rest. He rolled over and fitted himself against Dimmock’s back, breathing a sigh and murmuring, “Liam.”

“Sorry,” Dimmock whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’all right.” Lestrade rubbed his chin into the junction where Dimmock’s neck curved into his shoulder. His jaw was rough with stubble, and Dimmock shivered at the sensation. “Not ‘sleep.”

Dimmock chuckled. “Yes, you were.”

He felt, against his neck, Lestrade’s eyelids flutter and then close again. “Who was at the door?”

“Who do you think?” Dimmock shoved an arm under the pillow, settling deeper into the bed and shutting his eyes. “He’ll call you tomorrow. Cal’s fine. So go back to sleep.”

Lestrade sighed through his nose, stirring the hairs on the back of Dimmock’s neck. He said drowsily, “Didn’t quite mean f’r him t’find out like this.”

“Did you mean for him to find out at all?” It wasn’t until after the question left his lips that Dimmock’s sleep-deprived brain caught up with his mouth, and his eyes snapped open in horror. He hadn’t meant to voice that _at all_ , let alone have it come out sounding as though he was searching for assurances.

But Lestrade only laughed and murmured slowly, “‘Course I was... you daft man.” He yawned before adding, “‘Bout time, don’t y’think?”

Dimmock said nothing at first, because neither of them operated under the illusion that their partnership was forever. Between them they had two failed marriages and about a dozen relationships that went the same way; the future was not something they contemplated often, preferring to stay in the present. They knew well enough the damage the job wrought on even the strongest couples; on even the ones who knew what to expect.

They didn’t have a guarantee. What they _did_ have was five minutes together in the morning, between the alarm and the shower; hasty kisses in empty corridors at the Yard, Dimmock on his way to a crime scene and Lestrade late for a meeting; questionable takeaway shared on a brief lunch break; crap telly they weren’t watching anyway, because Dimmock was straddling Lestrade’s thighs and working to divest him of his shirt while Lestrade trailed open-mouthed kisses along his jaw.

“Didn’t think you’d want to, all things considered,” Dimmock said finally.

“Whether this lasts another month or for the rest of our lives doesn’t matter,” Lestrade murmured in his ear. “What _does_ matter is now. And right now, I want my godson to meet the man I love.”

Dimmock rolled over onto his back and opened his arm in invitation. Lestrade moved to rest his head on Dimmock’s chest, molding his body to the younger man’s side. Dimmock let his arm fall across Lestrade’s shoulders and tugged him closer, sighing as the salt-and-pepper hair tickled his nose. He dropped a kiss on top of Lestrade’s head and murmured, “Go back to sleep.”

And in the morning, Dimmock woke to find Lestrade pacing through the living room, carrying on a very animated discussion with Sherlock - _No, you bloody well better_ not _have your brother run a background check on him!_ \- over the speaker phone on his mobile, a conversation that was occasionally punctuated by Calvin’s cheerful babble - _Look what I found, Dad!_ \- and John’s long-suffering, _Sherlock, what the_ hell _are you boiling in this pot?_

It was mad; completely and utterly absurd.

And Dimmock had a feeling he could get quite used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify - while they may share a first name, this is not the same Dimmock as the one found in ["Too Many Mornings."](http://impishtubist.livejournal.com/59705.html)


End file.
